Rise of the Dragons. Morgan Rice

his sword for a staff, and for the first time in his life, he had gone a solid moon without killing or hurting a soul. He was starting to feel good.

      As Merk crested a small hill, he looked out, hopeful, as he had been for days, that this peak might reveal the Tower of Ur somewhere on the horizon. But there was nothing to be found – nothing but more woods, reaching as far as the eye could see. Yet he knew he was getting close – after so many days of hiking, the tower could not be that far off.

      Merk continued down the slope of the path, the wood growing thicker, until, at the bottom, he came to a huge, felled tree blocking the path. He stopped and looked at it, admiring its size, debating how to get around it.

      “I’d say that’s about far enough,” came a sinister voice.

      Merk recognized the dark intention in the voice immediately, something he had become expert in, and he did not even need to turn to know what was coming next. He heard leaves crunching all around him, and out of the wood there emerged faces to match the voice: cutthroats, each more desperate looking than the next. They were the faces of men who killed for no reason. The faces of common thieves and killers who preyed on the weak with random, senseless violence. In Merk’s eyes, they were the lowest of the low.

      Merk saw he was surrounded and knew he had walked into a trap. He glanced around quickly without letting them know it, his old instincts kicking in, and he counted eight of them. They all held daggers, all dressed in rags, with dirty faces, hands, and fingernails, all unshaven, all with a desperate look that showed they hadn’t eaten in too many days. And that they were bored.

      Merk tensed as the lead thief got closer, but not because he feared him; Merk could kill him – could kill them all – without blinking an eye, if he chose. What made him tense was the possibility of being forced into violence. He was determined to keep his vow, whatever the cost.

      “And what do we have here?” one of them asked, coming close, circling Merk.

      “Looks like a monk,” said another, his voice mocking. “But those boots don’t match.”

      “Maybe he’s a monk who thinks he’s a soldier,” one laughed.

      They all broke into laughter, and one of them, an oaf of a man in his forties with a missing front tooth, leaned in with his bad breath and poked Merk in the shoulder. The old Merk would have killed any man who had come half as close.

      But the new Merk was determined to be a better man, to rise above violence – even if it seemed to seek him out. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm.

      Do not resort to violence, he told himself again and again.

      “What’s this monk doing?” one of them asked. “Praying?”

      They all burst into laughter again.

      “Your god won’t save you now, boy!” another exclaimed.

      Merk opened his eyes and stared back at the cretin.

      “I do not wish to harm you,” he said calmly.

      Laughter rose up, louder than before, and Merk realized that staying calm, not reacting with violence, was the hardest thing he had ever done.

      “Lucky for us, then!” one replied.

      They laughed again, then all fell silent as their leader stepped forward and got in Merk’s face.

      “But perhaps,” he said, his voice serious, so close that Merk could smell his bad breath, “we wish to harm you.”

      A man came up behind Merk, wrapped a thick arm around his throat, and began squeezing. Merk gasped as he felt himself being choked, the grip tight enough to put him in pain but not to cut off all air. His immediate reflex was to reach back and kill the man. It would be easy; he knew the perfect pressure point in the forearm to make him release his grip. But he forced himself not to.

      Let them pass, he told himself. The road to humility must begin somewhere.

      Merk faced their leader.

      “Take of mine what you wish,” Merk said, gasping. “Take it and be on your way.”

      “And what if we take it and stay right here?” the leader replied.

      “No one’s asking you what we can and can’t take, boy,” another said.

      One of them stepped up and ransacked Merk’s waist, rummaging greedy hands through his few personal belongings left in the world. Merk forced himself to stay calm as the hands rifled through everything he owned. Finally, they extracted his well-worn silver dagger, his favorite weapon, and still Merk, as painful as it was, did not react.

      Let it go, he told himself.

      “What’s this?” one asked. “A dagger?”

      He glared at Merk.

      “What’s a fancy monk like you carrying a dagger?” one asked.

      “What are you doing, boy, carving trees?” another asked.

      They all laughed, and Merk gritted his teeth, wondering how much more he could take.

      The man who took the dagger stopped, looked down at Merk’s wrist, and yanked back his sleeve. Merk braced himself, realizing they’d found it.

      “What’s this?” the thief asked, grabbing his wrist and holding it up, examining it.

      “It looks like a fox,” one said.

      “What’s a monk doing with a tattoo of a fox?” another asked.

      Another stepped forward, a tall, thin man with red hair, and grabbed his wrist and examined it closely. He let it go and looked up at Merk with cautious eyes.

      “That’s no fox, you idiot,” he said to his men. “It’s a wolf. It’s the mark of a King’s man – a mercenary.”

      Merk felt his face flush as he realized they were staring at his tattoo. He did not want to be discovered.

      The thieves all remained silent, staring at it, and for the first time, Merk sensed hesitation in their faces.

      “That’s the order of the killers,” one said, then looked at him. “How did you get that mark, boy?”

      “Probably gave it to himself,” one answered. “Makes the road safer.”

      The leader nodded to his man, who released his grip on Merk’s throat, and Merk breathed deep, relieved. But the leader then reached up and held a knife to Merk’s throat and Merk wondered if he would die here, today, in this place. He wondered if it would be punishment for all the killing he had done. He wondered if he was ready to die.

      “Answer him,” their leader growled. “You give that to yourself, boy? They say you need to kill a hundred men to get that mark.”

      Merk breathed, and in the long silence that followed, debated what to say. Finally, he sighed.

      “A thousand,” he said.

      The leader blinked back, confused.

      “What?” he asked.

      “A thousand men,” Merk explained. “That’s what gets you that tattoo. And it was given to me by King Tarnis himself.”

      They all stared back, shocked, and a long silence fell over the wood, so quiet that Merk could hear the insects chirping. He wondered what would happen next.

      One of them broke into hysterical laughter – and all the others followed. They laughed and guffawed as Merk stood there, clearly thinking it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

      “That’s a good one, boy,” one said. “You’re as good a liar as you are a monk.”

      The leader pushed the dagger against his throat, hard enough to begin to draw blood.

      “I said, answer me,” the leader repeated. “A real answer. You want to die right now, boy?”

      Merk stood there, feeling the pain, and he thought about the question – he truly thought about it. Did he